Full text of "Abraham Lincoln : Miss Ann Rutledge, New Salem, pioneering, and the poem, a lecture delivered in the old Sangamon county court house, November 1866"

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1 Mill and Dam.

2 Jacob Bales.

3 McNamara's Store, where Lincoln

kept Post Office.

4 The Log Tavern, by H. Onstot,

where Lincoln boarded from
1833 to 1835.

5 Dr. Allen's Residence.

6 Aleck Fergesson's Cabin.
7. Hill's Store.

8 Hill's Residence.

9 The Carding Machine.

10 Martin Waddle, Hatter Shop.

11 William McNeely.

12 Henry Onstot's Cooper Shop.

13 Henry Onstot's Residence.

14 Miller's Blacksmith Shop.
15-16 Miller and Kelso Residence.

17 Road from Petersburg.

18 Road from Mill— West.

19 Springfield Road — South.

20 The Lincoln Cellar,

with the Three Trees Growing.

21 Grave Yard.

22 School House.

23 Gander Pulling.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

MISS ANN RUTLEDGE

NEW SALEM

PIONEERING ^ THE POEM

A LECTURE

Delivered in the Old Sangamon County Court House
November, 1866

WILLIAM H. HERNDON

SPRINGHELD. ILUNOIS
1910

COLLECTOR'S EDITION
Limited to 1 50 signed copies, of which this is No. t..^..

FOEEWOED.

Among the many who have written of Abraham
Lincoln, none surpass in interesting statement and
forceful expression, his long time law partner, Wm.
H. Herndon. This remarkable address of Mr. Hern-
don 's has never before been published, and is prac-
tically unknown to collectors of Lincolniania. It was
delivered as a lecture, on an evening in November,
1866, to a very small audience gathered in the old
Sangamon County Court House, on the east side of
the public square, in Springfield, 111. It was after-
wards printed at length, as here given, as a broad-
side, but owing to this unfortunate choice of form,
it quickly disappeared and at present but three
copies are known to exist — one in the Illinois State
Historical Library, where it was placed by the late
Dr. A. W. French, another in the library of Dr. Wil-
liam Jayne, who purchased it from the late Joseph
Wallace, and a third which the publisher, such is
his faith, hopes soon to add to his private collection.

Newspaper comment, made at the time of its de-
livery, was invariably unfavorable, and this recep-
tion of his carefully prepared lecture, doubtless de-
termined Mr. Herndon in not repeating it.

For exactness and detail in statement ; for careful
study of natural forms in and about New Salem;
for courage in giving "the unvarnished truth" as
he saw it, and in other traits which the reader will
easily discover, this lecture stands as a most un-
usual and remarkable effort.

In connection with some of Mr. Herndon's state-
ments, an extract is here given, from a letter ad-
dressed to the publisher under date of August 9th,
1904, which makes clear the party concerned, and
the circumstance of Ann Rutledge's double en-
gagement.

' ' My father and Abraham Lincoln were associated
together at New Salem, about three miles south of
Petersburg. My father became engaged to marry
Miss Ann Eutledge. He went back to New York
after his mother, brothers and sisters, to bring them
out to the new country. While absent he was taken
with a fever and was away three years. In the
meantime Ann and Abraham Lincoln became en-
gaged, they thinking my father dead. My father,
however, returned before the wedding came off.
Ann took sick and died. My father has pointed out
the spot to many where the lovely Ann's remains
rest. Mr. Herndon was at my father's house soon

after Lincoln's death and obtained many points con-
cerning his early history. * * *

Andeew McNamar.

Two later lectures by Mr, Herndon, one on "Lin-
coln's Eeligion," the other on "Lincoln's Character
and Personal Appearance," were likewise allowed
to perish for lack of permanence in printed form.
Their subject matter, however, was embodied in the
extended Life of Lincoln published in 1872 by Ward
H. Lamon, and in the still later Life of Lincoln
written and published by Mr. Herndon in 1889.

H. E. BARKER.

Springfield^ III.,

February 12, 1910.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

ANN RUTLEDGE

NEW SALEM

PIONEERING AND THE POEM

By William H. HERNDOisr.

Ladies and Gentlemen: —

I am about to deliver a Lecture tonight on Abra-
ham Lincoln, Miss Ann Rutledge, New Salem, Pio-
neering, and the Poem commonly called Immortality
or ''Oh! Why should the spirit of mortal be proud?"

Lincoln loved Ann Rutledge better than his own
life; and I shall give the history of the poem so far
as to connect it with the two in its own proper place
and time.

The facts in relation to Abraham, Ann, and the
poem, making a complete history, lie in fragments
in the desk at my office, in the bureau drawers at my
home, and in my memory — in the memories of men,
women and children all over this broad land, and
especially in the counties of Menard and Sangamon,
covering an area of sixty miles square.

The facts, I say, are fragmentary. They lie float-
ing on the memories of men, women and children in
and about New Salem, and in and about this city.
This lecture is but a part— a small part— of a long,
thrilling and eloquent story. I have not here told
the whole story; nay, not the half of it; nor can I
do so here understandingly, for the want of time.
I am forced to keep something back from necessity
which shall, in due time, assume a more permanent
form. That which is withheld is just as interesting,
and more lovely, than I here can tell or relate. Some
one has said that ' 'truth is stranger than fiction;"
and as it is stranger, so it is sometimes more beauti-
ful and more sad. We see the truth; we feel it; it
is present, and we deeply sympathize with it.

All human life is more uncertain, and it may rea-
sonably be thought that the invisible and intangible
threads that enwrap and tie up life, may be sud-
denly snapped, and historic events of great interest
and importance to mankind— lost forever. I do not
think— wishing to arrogate nothing to myself— that
any living man or woman so well understands,
the many delicate wheels and hidden springs of the
story of Lincoln, Miss Eutledge, the Poem, and its
relation to the two, in time and place, as I do. My

pecuniary condition will not let me rest. Duty to
myself, my family, and my clients, holds me sternly
to my profession. I cannot drop these duties,
spurred on by necessity, as I am, to sit down and at
once furnish the long contemplated life of Mr. Lin-
coln. I am compelled to walk slowly, but what I
shall lose in speed I shall gain in volume and cer-
tainty of record. To put these fragmentary facts
and historic events therefore beyond danger, I con-
sent tonight to speak, write and utter what I know, I
have no right to retain facts and events, so import-
ant to a good understanding of Mr. Lincoln's life, in
my own selfish bosom any longer. I rest under a
sacred duty to mankind, to relate the facts and nar-
rate the circumstances that lawfully and truthfully
belong to the story. I owe to man the facts and the
story which shall soon become, I believe, not through
me, as to artistic beauty, one of the world's most
classic stories.

You know my Religion, my Philosophy namely:
That the highest thought and acts of the human soul
in its religious sphere, are to think, love, obey and
worship God, by thinking freely, by loving, teaching,
doing good to and elevating mankind. My first duty
is to God, then to mankind, and then to the indi-

vidual man or woman. I wish to perform my duty
honestly and truthfully. I do not wish to awaken
or injure the dead, nor to wound or injure the feel-
ings of any living man or woman. I am glad — nay,
happy, — to be able to speak to my own fellow citi-
zens of this city — neighbors, friends, and enemies
too, tonight, so near the scene and facts that I am
about to relate. Each one of you, every man,
woman and child, has the same powers, the same
means, opportunities and capacities I have, to hunt
up, find and criticise the facts, know them and to
verify them, each for himself.

The truth of the story is open to all alike, rich
and poor, energetic and lazy. If any man or woman,
or child, after hearing this lecture, still doubts what
is here told, let him or her come to my office and
have all skepticism wiped out at once from his or
her mind. There is no doubt about the story; there
can be none. I want only truth, and I, in common
with all mankind, for all time to come, am deeply
interested to have the facts known exactly as they
are, truthfully and substantially told.

If I am mistaken substantially in any particular,
or in general, expose me by exposing the error.
I am willing that my character among you may

stand or fall by the substantial truthfulness of this
lecture in every particular. I want no doubts to
hang over the subject, nor shall they so hang if I
can avoid it, between the honest gaze of mankind
and their search for truth, blurring their mental
vision.

Truth in history is my sole and only motive for
making this sad story now public for the first time.
History is sacred, and should be so held eternally by
all men. What would you give for a manly, honest,
candid and noble biography of Washington? Let
the universal regrets of mankind fix the price and
stamp the value.

The facts which I shall relate, including the scen-
ery of New Salem, shall, in my humble judgment,
throw a strong foot-light on the path of Abraham
Lincoln, from New Salem, through Springfield, to
and through Washington, to the grave. They, to
me, throw their rays all over Mr. Lincoln's thoughts,
acts, deeds, and life, privately, domestically, socially,
religiously and otherwise. I hope they will to you.
I dare not keep these facts longer. Men need to
read history by a blazing light. This is my apology
for the publication of these facts now, and I appeal
to time for my defense. The world needs but one

other set of facts to get the whole, almost the divine
light, that illuminates Mr, Lincoln's pathway. The
facts are a little older than he was — some a little
younger. Will the world dare hear them and defend
the man that tells them I

Ladies and gentlemen, friends, enemies, too, give
me the good, kind, sad and tender corner of your
hearts tonight, not forgetting your heads. Ann
Eutledge was a beautiful girl of New Salem from
1824 to 1836. She was born in Kentucky, January
7th, 1813. She was a grandchild of the liberty-loving
patriotic Rutledges of South Carolina. Her father
was born in South Carolina, amid the echoes of the
cannon's revolutionary roar. Mr. Lincoln lived in
New Salem from 1830 to 1837, and boarded for
awhile with Cameron, who was a partner of Mr.
Eutledge. Mr. Lincoln soon changed his home. He
went and boarded with Mr. James Eutledge about
the year 1833 and 1834, and then and there first be-
came well acquainted with Ann Eutledge. He may
have known her well before this. I have no space
here to give a description of this beautiful, amiable,
and lovely girl of nineteen. She was gifted with a
good mind. Three good and influential men of the
little village of New Salem, simultaneously fell in

love with this girl — A. Lincoln, Mr. , and Mr.

. The third man she quickly rejected. He

was a gentleman ; so was Lincoln ; so was Mr. .

All these men were strong men, men of power, as
time demonstrated. Circumstances, fate, Provi-
dence, the iron chain of sweeping events, so willed
it that this young lady was engaged to Mr. Lincoln

and Mr. at the same time.

No earthly blame can be attached to the girl, and
none to the men in their fidelity and honor to her.
It all so happened, or was decided by fate. It shall,
in truth, be explained hereafter to the satisfaction
of all. It is a sad, thrilling story. The young girl
saw her condition. Her word of promise was out
to two men at the same time, both of whom she
loved, dearly loved. The consciousness of this, and
the conflict of duties, love's-, promises, and womanly
engagements, made her think, grow sad, become
restless and nervous. She suffered, pined, ate not
and slept not. Time and struggle, as supposed and
believed by many, caused her to have a raging fever,
of which she died on the 25th of August, A. D. 1835.
She died on a farm seven miles north, bearing a lit-
tle west of New Salem, and now lies buried in the
Concord graveyard, six miles north, bearing a little

west of New Salem, and four miles from Petersburg.

On Sunday, the 14tli day of October, A. D. 1866,

I went to the well cultured and well stocked farm of

Mr. . I went with book in hand, in search of

facts. I have known the gentleman whom I visited,
for more than thirty years. He received and wel-
comed me into his house most cordially, and treated
me most hospitably. He acted like a gentleman, and
is one. He is the man who knows all the story so

far as it relates to . He knows it and has

. He owns the on which the young

girl died; and if I could risk a rapid and random

opinion, I should say he purchased the in

part, if not solely, because of the sad memories that
cluster over and around it. The visit and my task
were truly delicate. Without holding you longer in
uneasy and unnecessary suspense, from what took
place then and there, permit me to say, that I asked
the gentleman this question: ''Did you know Miss
Eutledge? If so, where did she die?" He sat by
his open window, looking westerly, and pulling me
closer to himself, looked through the window and

said: ''There, by that " choking up with

emotion, pointing his long forefinger, nervous and
trembling, towards the spot — "there, by that cur-

rant bush, she died. The old house in which she and
her father died, is gone."

I then, after some delay, asked the further ques-
tion: "In what month and year did she die?"
He replied, "In the month of August, 1835." After
further conversation, leaving the sadness to momen-
tarily pass away, I asked this additional question:
"Where was she buried?" In reply to which he
said, "In Concord burying ground, one mile south-
east from this place." "Can you tell me exactly
where she lies buried?" I remarked. He said, "No,
I cannot. I left the country in 1832 or 1833. My
mother soon after died, and she too, was buried in
the same little sacred graveyard, and when I re-
turned here in 1835 I could find neither grave. The
Berrys, however, may know Ann's."

To Berry's I speedily went, with my friend and
guide, James Miles. The time was 11 :20 a. m., Sun-
day, the 14th day of October, A. D. 1866. I found
S. C. Berry at the Concord church, a little, white,
neat meeting house, that crowns the brow of a small
knoll overlooking Concord creek — Berry's creek,
southward. S. C. Berry, James Short — the gentle-
man who purchased in Mr. Lincoln's compass and
chain in 1834, under an execution against Lincoln,

or Lincoln and Berry, and gratuitously gave them
back to Mr. Lincoln — James Miles and myself, were
together. We all went into the meadow eastward
of the church and sat down in the shade of a wahaut
tree. I asked Mr. Berry if he knew where Miss
Rutledge was buried — the place and exact surround-
ings? He replied: "I do. The grave of Miss Rut-
ledge lies just north of her brother's, David Rut-
ledge, a young lawyer of great promise, who died in
1842, in his 27th year."

I went from the neat little church to the Concord
burying ground, and soon found the grave of Miss
Ann Rutledge. The cemetery contains about one
acre of ground, and is laid out in a square. The
dead lie in rows, not in squares, as is usual. The
ground, the yard, is beautifully situated on a mound,
and lies on the main road leading from Springfield,
in Sangamon County, to Havana, in Mason County.
It is situated — lies on Berry's creek, and on the left
bank or west side. The ground gradually slopes off
east and west, north and south. A ribbon of small
timber runs up the creek. It does not here break
into groves. The creek runs northward — i. e., its
general course, and runs into what is called Blue
Lake in the Sangamon bottom, and thence running

into the Sangamon river, some three miles distant
from the burying ground. The grounds are other-
wise beautifully situated. A thin skirt of timber
lies on the east, commencing at the fence of the
cemetery. The ribbon of timber, some fifty yards
wide, hides the sun's early rise. At 9 o'clock the
sun pours all his rays into the cemetery. An ex-
tensive prairie lies west, the forest north, a field on
the east, and timber and prairie lie on the south.
In this lovely ground lie the Berrys, the Eutledges,
the Clarrys, the Armstrongs, and the Jones, old and
respected citizens, pioneers of an early day.

I write — or rather did write, the original draft of
this description in the immediate presence of the
ashes of Miss Ann Rutledge, the beautiful and tender
dead. ' ' My heart lies buried here, ' ' said Lincoln to
a friend. I wrote in the presence of the spirits of
David and Ann Eutledge, Remembering the good
spirit of Abraham. I knew the young man as early
as 1841, probably when he had first commenced his
profession as lawj^er. The village of the dead is a
sad, solemn place, and when out in the country, es-
pecially so. Its very presence imposes truth on the
mind of the living writer. Ann Rutledge lies buried
north of her brother, and rests sweetly on his left

arm, angels to guard her. The cemetery is fast
filling with the hazel and the dead.

I shall now have to take you back with me some
five years or more. After Mr. Lincoln returned
from New Orleans, in 1831, and after a short visit
to his father and mother in Coles County, in Illi-
nois, who then lived on a farm eight miles south of
Charleston, the county seat of Coles County, he
returned to New Salem, twenty miles northwest of
Springfield, now the capitol, and the home of Lin-
coln in 1860. At that time New Salem and Spring-
field were in one county, the County of Sangamon.
Mr. Lincoln first saw New Salem hill on the 18th
day of April, 1831, and he must have been struck
with the beauty of the scene, if not with its grandeur
and sublimity.

Objects of beauty, objects of grandeur, objects of
sublimity, have a supreme power over the mind,
elevating and expanding it, humanizing and edu-
cating it. These educate us, and give us an ex-
panded, ever-widening view of nature and of God.
It is said that the Alpine heights with their majestic
sceneries, make the Swiss a patriotic, liberty-loving
people, who have defied Austrian bayonets for ages.
It is said that the sacred hills and mountains around

Athens, and the great deep blue sea that sweeps
around her feet — that is to say, the peninsula's feet
— made and fashioned her poets, statesmen and
orators. New Salem had and has some power in
this way and did have on Mr. Lincoln's mind. I
am now necessitated — that you may understand
much that goes before and comes after — to describe
New Salem and her surroundings.

I do this for various reasons in addition to what
I specially name, in order to give you a running
picture of New Salem — her rivers, peaks, bluffs, and
other views. I first knew this hill or bluff as early
as 1829. I have seen it in spring time and winter,
in summer time and fall. I have seen it in daylight
and night time; have seen it when the sward was
green, living and vital, and I have seen it wrapt
in snow, frost and sleet. I have closely studied it for
more than five long years, ^he town of New Salem
lies on the west — the left — bank of the river Sanga-
mon, and is situated on a bluff, which rises above
low water mark in the river about 100 feet.

The town is on the road leading from Springfield
to Havana — the former in Sangamon County and
the latter in Mason County. New Salem hill was
once covered with the wild forest — tree — not a very

thick heavy timber, rather barren, so called. The
forest was cut off to make room for the village,
which was laid out in 1828. It became a trading
place at that time, and in 1836 contained a popula-
tion of about 100 souls, living in about 20 houses,
some of which cost from $10 to $100 — none exceeded
the latter sum. The village had one regular, straight
street, running east and west, the east end resting
on the brow of the hill, overlooking the Sangamon,
and the west end abutting against the forest. The
village runs along on what is called the backbone
of the hill, it sloping on the north and south.

The north branch rises in a meadow or field, about
three-fourths of a mile west of New Salem, and
sweeps east, cutting a deep channel as it rushes and
runs. The branch pours its waters in the Sanga-
mon river about three hundred yards below and
north of the village.

The creek on the south — a larger and a longer
one than the north branch — by its cuts and deep
channels, 80 or 100 feet deep, leaves New Salem on
the back of the hill — the very backbone of the ridge.
The only and main street was about 70 feet wide,
and the backbone of the hill is about 250 feet across
— sufficiently wide for a street, with lots 180 feet

deep — till it runs back westerly for some distance,
growing wider, to the then forest and now meadow
or field. The hill on the east end of the street
where the river runs, and which the bluffs boldly
overlook, rises at some places almost to perpendic-
ular heights. At other places it rises from an angle
of 25 to 80 degrees.

There is an old mill at the foot of the bluff, on
the Sangamon, driven by water power. The river
washes the base of the bluff for about 400 yards,
the hill breaking off almost abruptly at the north.
The river along this line runs about due north; it
strikes the bluff coming around a sudden bend from
the south-east, the river being checked and turned
by the rocky hill. The milldam running across the
Sangamon river just at the mill, checks the rapidity
of the water. It was here and on this dam that Mr.
Lincoln's flatboat ''stuck on the 19th of April,
1831." The dam is about eight feet high, and 220
feet long, and as the old Sangamon rolls her turbid
waters over the dam, plunging them into the whirl
and eddy beneath, the roar and hiss of waters, like
the low, continuous, distant thunder, can be distinct-
ly heard through the whole village, day and night,
week day and Sunday, spring and fall, or other

high water time. The river, at the base of the bluff,
is about 250 feet wide. The mill using up 30 feet,
leaving the dam only about 220 feet long. Green's
rocky branch, so called, which rises west by a little
south of New Salem, sweeps eastwardly and washes
the southern line of the base of the hill ; it is a nar-
row, winding stream, whose bottom is covered with
pretty little pebbles of all shapes, colors and sizes.
Standing on New Salem hill and looking southward
some 800 yards across a valley, rises the opposite
bank or bluff of the hill, made by the branch or
double force of branch and river. The bluff rises
to an equal elevation with the Salem hill, if not a
little higher. The hills or bluffs are covered with a
heavy timber. The creek leaps and pours her waters
into the Sangamon just above the milldam, some-
times adding its rapid and clear and clean volume
to the pond. On the eastern side of the river, on
the right bank of the river, looking east down the
village street, running east and west, the range of
bluffs rises generally to the level of the surround-
ing hills. The distance from bluff to bluff, across
the river, is about 1,000 yards, possibly 1,500 yards.
The general range of the hills on the eastern side
of the river is likewise bearded with timber — the

wild forest trees — mostly oak, hickory, walnut, ash
and elm. The bottom, the rich lowlands that lie
between hill and hill, are about 800 yards wide, pos-
sibly more, and between peak and peak, hill and
hill, through this rich and deep alluvial soil, flint
and limestone, chalk and sand, clay and lime, slate
and soapstone, animal and vegetable remains, rolls,
washes and plays from east to west, from peak to
peak, through the ages, the eternal Sangamon, cast-
ing and rolling sand and clay, flint and limestone,
animal and vegetable debris, on either shore as it
half omnipotently wills, sometimes kissing the feet
of one bluff, and then washing the other. At other
times — in spring time or other high water seasons —
the river at other places is more than a mile wide,
ranging from its head to its mouth. As we look up
the river southeast, and follow with our eyes its
winding course, beyond bluff rises bluff on bluff,
and forest on forest, the first tier of timber giving
and presenting to the eye, in the month of October — •
the time of writing this — a mellow green orange
color of various shades, according to distance and
the angle of view. The second ribbon of timber, ris-
ing over the first and beyond, gives and presents
to the eye a more distinct and darker green, tinted

with blue — a more uniform color and not so abrupt
in its dash, its risings and swells. The third belt of
timber, still beyond, rising over the first and second
timber, to the eye gives and presents a still deeper
and more distinct blue, wrapt in mist generated in
the distance, as it rises and recedes in the infinite
east, leaving a clear, sharp outline, less abrupt and
more uniform than either of the closer ones, slightly
undulating, out against the clear, clean blue eastern
sky, measuring and fixing beyond doubt the earth's
general level and its rotundity here. Down the
river, a little east, is the same general view, though
not so beautiful, not so grand, because less distinct
and prominent to the eye. About two miles north,
in a beautiful valley, nestles snugly the handsome
town of Petersburg, which Lincoln surveyed and
laid out in 1836, and which is now the county seat of
Menard County, with a population of about 1,500
souls. About three-fourths of a mile below New
Salem, at the foot of the main bluff, and in a hollow
between two lateral bluffs, stands the house of Bolin
Green, now uninhabited. It is a log-house, weather-
boarded; and about the same distance north from
Bolin Green's house, now at the foot of the bluff,
stands the building, the house and home once of

Bennett Able. When the proper time comes I shall
have to tell of another quite romantic love story
that happened at this house.

These descriptions mean something, and in our
historic evolution you will perceive the absolute
necessity of them; then you will thank me, not be-
fore, possibly. New Salem, Petersburg, Green's
and Able 's houses, all lie on the western bank of the
river, namely on the left-hand shore. These bluffs,
houses, and general scenery give a beautiful appear-
ance to the eye. I cannot truthfully say they rise to
the grand, yet they are most beautiful indeed.

When I wrote the original of this on my knee, I
was on the hill and bluff, the sun was just climbing
upward out of the forest in the east, hanging over
the timber like a fire-wheel, climbing and rolling
up the deep unmeasured immensities above me. The
morning, the 15th day of October, 1866, was misty,
cloudy, foggy and cold. The orb of day soon dis-
sipated and scattered mist and fog, cloud and cold.
The Circuit Court of Menard County had adjourned
and my business was finished, and I was free, at
least for one day. I sat down to write amid the ruins
of New Salem. Only one lone and solitary log hut
was in view — all that remains of New Salem; it is

one-story high, had two doors, two chimneys, two
rooms, fronts north, and is a log house, weather-
boarded with plank. Abraham has been in it possi-
bly a hundred times.

The logs are hewed a little, simply faced. The
chimneys are one at the east end and the other at
the west end of the house. On the south of the
house stands now a smoke house of plank, a seem-
ingly newer erection. My guide, a new man, sat at
my right hand, my feet in the ruins of the town,
and close to me, and a little southwest, rang and
rolled out and tinkled the ring of a lone cow bell,
rattling, tapping and sounding here and there, as
the cow browsed along the hills. The roll and roar
of the Sangamon is distinctly heard eastward, as
the waters curl and leap over the dam and plunge
into the stream beneath. Lincoln has heard it often,
and though he is gone, it rolls and roars on, and
will for ages yet to come. All human life is tran-
sient, Nature permanent. Life is but for an instant.
Nature is eternal. Why burn the short span of our
human life by undue use and haste.

As I sat on the verge of the town, in the presence
of its ruins, I called to mind the street running
east and west through the village, the river east-

ward, Green's rocky branch, with its hills, south-
ward; Clarry's Grove westerly about three miles;
Petersburg northward and Springfield southeast,
and now I cannot exclude from my memory or
imagination, the forms, faces, voices, and features
of those I once knew so well. In my imagination,
the little village perched on the hill is astir with the
hum of busy men, and the sharp, quick buzz of
women ; and from the country come men and women
afoot or on horseback, to see and to be seen ; to hear
and to be heard; to barter and exchange what they
have with the merchant and laborer. There are
Jack Armstrong, and Wm. Green, Kelso and Jason
Duncan, Alley and Cameron, Hill and McNamara,
Herndons and Eutledges, Warburton and Sincho,
Bale and Ellis, Abraham and Ann.

Oh! what a history. Here it was that the bold,
rattling and brave roysterer met and greeted roys-
terer; bumper rang to bumper, and strong friend
met friend and fought friend, for friendship's sake.
Here it was that all strangers, every new comer, was
initiated quickly, sharply and rudely, into the lights
and mysteries of western civilization. The stranger
was compelled, if he assumed the appearance of a

man, to walk through the strength and courage of
naturally great men.

They were men of no college culture, but they
had their many and broad, well tested experiences,
good sense and sound judgment, and if the stranger
bore well his part, acted well, he at once became,
thenceforward, a brother of the clan forever. But
if — but if he failed, he quickly, amid their mocking
jeers, sank out of sight to rise no more; or existed
as an enemy stranger, to be killed anywhere at first
sight by any of the clan, and to be forever damned
to the eternity of their unending scorn, or scorched
in the social hell forevermore. This is no fancy pic-
ture. It existed as I have told it, and Lincoln had
to pass it. He did it nobly and well, and thence-
forward held unlimited sway over the clan. Lin-
coln did it by calm, cool courage and physical
strength. He said to the clan one day — ''If you
want and must have a fight, prepare." The word
prepare, with the courage and body behind it, set-
tled the affair. The clan had seen him, strapped, lift
in a box in the old mill, a thousand pounds.

They knew his courage well, and the word prepare,
settled all. Here it was that manly honesty with
womanly tenderness, valor, strength, and great nat-

Tiral capacity, went hand in hand, however absurd it
may appear to the world. I affirm the truth of this
here and now. Such a people the world never sees
but once, and such people! I knew them all; have
been with them all; and respect them all. A man
with vastly greater powers than I possess might
well quail from the task of writing the history of the
men and times of New Salem. This is the ground on
which Lincoln walked, and sported, joked and
laughed, loved and despaired, read law, studied sur-
veying and grammar, read for the first time
Shakespeare and Burns, and here it was that his
reason once bent to its burdens. And oh! how sad
and solemn are New Salem's memories to me. The
spirit of the place to me is lonely and yet sweet. It
presides over the soul gently, tenderly, yet sadly.
It does not down. It does not crush. It entices and
enwraps. May the spirits 6f the loved and loving
dead here meet and embrace, as they were denied
them on earth. A friend of mine, who knew Mr.
Lincoln as well as I did, and whose judgment I
always respect, profoundly so, said that df Mr.
Lincoln had married Ann Rutledge, the sweet, tender
and loving girl, he would have gravitated insensibly
into a purely domestic man ; that locality, home, and

domesticity, were the tendencies of Mr. Lincoln;
that the love and death of the girl shattered Lin-
coln's purposes and tendencies; that he threw off
this infinite grief and sorrow to the man, and leaped
wildly into the political arena as a refuge from his
despair. Another gentleman agrees with this, and
affirms that Lincoln needed a whip and spur to
rouse him to deeds of fame. I give no opinion now
for want of space. The affirmation or denial needs
argument to my mind.

As I clambered from bluff to bluff, crossing
streams and hollows, which ran into the creek, flow-
ing thence into the river, I tread on and pass the
wild mistletoe, so called, green, living moss, clinging
to rock and sandy, cold, shaded, damp clay. The
ferns and low creeping vines cover the hillsides here.
While I was taking the notes of this lecture on the
spot, I sat in the infinite past, ages, where they
have written their origin, creation, their growth,
their development, death and decay, on the coal and
rock records of Nature, that lay at my feet and rose
above my head. The blue sky above me, however,
refuses to vegetable and to man her clear, clean blue
leaves, whereon to record their creation, growth,
death and decay. One as he sits in the present, on

the past, cannot avoid thinking and speculating on
the immense, endless, boundless, infinite future, in
this world and that to come. The day on which I
took my notes was the 15th day of October, A. D.
1866. The frost had scorched the leaves of the
forest, and they hung dry, curled and quivering in
the winds, as they sighed and moaned. Death rides
everywhere, but life has begun everywhere before
death comes.

Death is a natural condition of life and life a
condition of death. Which is the normal one ? Are
death and life normal? As I wander up Green's
rocky creek, say one mile from its mouth, I cross the
stream and climb along the northern face of the hill,
where the sun seldom, if ever, warms the sod.

The rolling brook has, here and there, beds or
groups of long, green, waving moss, that waves from
bank to bank, not upward and downward from bot-
tom to top. This moss, called here deer moss,
is from three to six feet long, is vital, living and a
beautiful pale green. Lichen clings to the rocks,
and the short green forest moss grows luxuriantly
here; and as it seems to me ages on long ages ago,
as the frozen waters swept and rushed southward
from their icy homes, on the Laureutian hills, with

huge rocks, called boulders, in their frozen arms,
they threw them at the northern face of the hill, and
piled them at random here and there. These rocks
rest or stand imbedded in the hill, south of New
Salem, at every elevation on its sides, and in every
angle of its face. One of these boulders seems as if
it came from some fiery pool, and not from the
northern pole. It has the looks, and smell, and feel
of fire on it. On the southern face of another hill,
across the branch, not far from where I stood at the
rock just described, I heard the rock quarrier's iron
rod ring out steel-like, as it bit and bored its way
through the thick limestone ledges, rock on rock,
sounding through valley and over hill. Here are
lime-burners' kilns, and coal diggers' shafts, hori-
zontal, going under the hill, or perpendicular, eighty
feet or more, to reach the third great stratum of
Illinois coal, deposited here millions of years now
gone by.

I returned to New Salem hill again and now, as
I intently gaze over the whole field and scene, to my
left, a little to the northeast, lies beautifully what
is called Baker's prairie, about one mile off, stretch-
ing out eastward two and one-half miles long, by
one and one-quarter miles wide. The prairie on

the east side of the river, and the bottom land on
the west side of the river, seem to me to be halves
of a common lake through which the Sangamon river
originally cut and burst. The bottom on the west
side of the river, just north of Salem, is three-
fourths of a mile wide, by one and a half miles long.
The prairie on the east side contains probably fifteen
hundred acres of rich — the very richest alluvial soil,
and the bottom on the west side contains about eight
hundred acres of the same kind of sod and soil.

The whole supposed lake, the eastern and the
western side of the rolling river, is surrounded by
hill and bluff, that rise to an equal elevation with
the Salem hill. The Sangamon river runs into the
lake at the south, and runs out at the north. These
hills, bluffs, and peaks surrounded this lake before
the great sea — long, long before the great sea of
waters passed off southward, between Missouri and
Kentucky, roaring into the great gulf below.

These hills are bearded with heavy forest trees.
Now, all over these hills and valleys are, here and
there, next little frame houses, and large, rich, and
beautiful fields, clothed in green meadows and yel-
low, ripened corn. Barns, orchards, and wheat
stacks dot the plain, where once probably floated

the shark or other monster of the deep, or browsed
the mastodon and other beasts. In the spring and
summer all the lands are covered with rich meadows,
wheat, oat and barley fields, over whose surface
floats the clouds, chasing clouds, casting their shad-
ows of various shapes and sizes on the ground, cov-
ered with grass and grain; and as the wings of the
wind gently move over the plains and fields, varied
shades and colors, deep green, pale green, ripening
into straw, salmon, dark straw and bright, in long,
wide, wild waves, chase and follow each other as
wave runs on and rolls after wave, in the ocean's
sport and play. Do not forget, never forget, that
Lincoln gazed on these scenes, which aided to edu-
cate him. Never forget this for one moment. Did
he love the beautiful and grand? If he did those
faculties were developed here. Eemember it was
amid these scenes he loved and despaired, and — ^but
I must pass on.

"While on my winding way, at my right hand and
on my left, in front of me and beneath my feet, I
saw and was met and greeted by the wild aster —
blue, purple and white — whose blossoms stand
trembling on their wiry stem in the wind. The blue
lobelia, the morning and evening primroses, the

shrubby acacia, growing ten inches high, filled with
yellow blooms, and the tall, huge mullen, whose
single shaft runs up from three to six feet high, and
whose broad, hairy, or velvety leaves lie broad and
flat on the ground — the very emblem of desolation —
were scattered here and there. Other flowers were
here.

In the early spring, in the first days of March, on
the southern slope or face of the New Salem hill,
comes first in the floral train, the blue and purple
johnny, with which all western children, in their
tender youth, fight rooster in the early spring.
Soon follows the hardy, perennial mountain phlox,
on the eastern side of the hill, where the sun first
strikes it square in the face, an evergreen in winter,
sending up in early spring from a common crown,
ten or twenty stalks with^ many flowers on their
slender stems, and on whose heads come and go
many peach-colored blossoms with five petals,
blooming from March to May. These grow about
six inches high. Then follows, on the southern
slope of the hill, the purple phlox, called the wild
sweet-william, growing about ten inches high, and
blooming from April to June. They too are hardy
and perennial — they may almost be called perpetual

■ ■ i.M>.^^

bloomers, taking all localities and situations into
account. At last, according to moisture, light and
heat, they girdle the hill on three sides — south, east
and north, and finally running back through the
woods, to and through the prairies westerly. The
blue bell comes with its hundreds tubular, purple
flowers, flaring at the mouth, bending in beauty and
humility to the ground. The meadow lily is here,
with its from two to four orange-colored flowers.
The lady slipper, called the whippoorwill shoe by
some, and the asclepias, red and orange, are here.
The Judas tree, called the red-bud, colors in spring
the forest's view. The may-apple and the wild
dielytra, the wild hyacinth, the wild pansy, and the
butter cup, among other fibrous, tuberous, and bulb-
ous rooted flowers, hardy and perennial, are like-
wise here, growing in patches or groups. The wild
scarlet honey-suckle, and the sweet-scented clematis,
throw their tendrils from limb to limb of hazel and
haw, and climb up high towards the sun, adding
their beauty to the scene.

The bignonia climbs the elm of the valley, and the
maple of the bottom; and in and during the year,
each of the flower named here comes and blooms,
seeds and dies, according to its floral season. The

wild, fiery scarlet Indian pink is scattered broad-
cast over the hill, and we must not forget the haw,
the crab apple and the plum, whose united fragrance
of a dewy morning or evening, cannot be excelled in
the floral world. The bushy dwarf and running
wild rose squats or climbs all over and around the
place. All, all these flowers come, bloom, have their
passions, form and bear their seeds, and perish ; and
yet come again, making the ages one grand floral
procession; and yet, and yet how few, oh! how few
men and women ever look upon and study these
beauties of valley and hill.

The fruit of this and the neighboring hills, woods,
valleys and forests, is the blackberry, the raspberry
and the dewberry, the red and black haw, the crab-
apple, the plum, strawberry, the cherry, the hack-
berry, and the paw-paw. Here are the walnut, the
hickory nut — black and white, hard shell and soft
shell — the acorn in variety, and the grape, summer
and fall, small and fox, sweet and sour.

The birds that come, sing, mate, raise their
young, and go or stay, are the eternal, universal and
uneasy jay, the wood cock, the wood pecker, the
robin and the dove, the duck and wild pigeon, the
quail and the wild goose, the prairie hen and turkey,

the martin and bee bird, the raven and the crow, the
owl and whipporwill, birds of night, the wren and
swallow, the cat bird and thrush, the snow bird and
snipe, the king fisher, the oriole, the humming bird,
and above all and over all, floats high, the gray or
bold bald eagle.

The timber and forest trees on the high and back
grounds, are the oak in variety, the hickory in va-
riety, sugar tree, walnut, ash, cherry and elm. The
timber in the bottom is mostly elm, buckeye, syca-
more, Cottonwood, maple and the huge oak. I do
not name all the trees, only some of the leading ones.
The river's edges are lined and filled and fringed
with the climbers, and the willows that grow run-
ning and wild over its waters.

The river and creeks give abundance of fish, such
as the pike and cat, salmon and sucker, bass and
buffalo, perch and red-horse, gar and sturgeon. The
forests are full of game, such as deer, turkey, squir-
rel, quail, coon and o 'possum, mink, muskrat and
rabbit.

Probably, I had better say the forest was once full
of game, and the river full of fish. The game and
fish are fast going. Game once served for sport,
fun, chase and food, for cheer and life; and if the

western eye could see its game, and his fore-finger,
educated to the feel, could but softly touch the well
set hair trigger of his own long, close shooting and
trusty gun, away goes as quick as lightning, the fast,
hissing, leaden bullet, and down drops life in man
and woman. Such were our people, and here they
lived, loved, bore and died.

On the opposite side of the river, eastward, across
the river from New Salem, on the bluffs, mounds and
peaks, may be found by thousands, the dead of the
Silurian period of the world, millions of years gone
by. We find the periwinkle, the bivalve, and other
such shells in abundance, with other higher animal
remains. The sand bars on the river's edge and in
the river, present and give up to man the dead of all
past time; and all around, all beneath, and above
are life and death, and all is the past, the present,
and the future, meeting, mingling, mixing and sink-
ing into one — God, who is all.

There have been four distinct and separate waves
— classes of men, who have followed each other on
the soil we now daily tread. The first is the Indian.
The second is the bee and beaver hunter, the em-
bodied spirit of western and southwestern pioneer-
ing ; they roam with the first class, nomads, wander-

ing Gipsies of the forests and the plains. The third
class, with sub-classes and varieties, is composed
of three distinct varieties of man, coming as a triple
wave. The first is the religious man, the John the
Baptist, preaching in the wilderness; the second is
the honest, hardy, thrifty, active and economical
farmer, and the third is composed of the wild, hardy,
honest, genial and social man — a mixture of the gen-
tleman, the rowdy, the roysterer; they are a wild,
rattling, brave, social and hospitable class of men;
they have no economy, caring only for the hour, and
yet thousands of them grow rich ; they give tone and
cast and character to the neighborhood in spite of
all that can be said or done ; they are strong, shrewd,
clever fellows; it is impossible to outwit or whip
them. The fourth class, with sub-classes and va-
rieties, have come among us seeking fortune, po-
sition, character, power, fame, having ideas, philoso-
phy, gearing the forces of nature for human uses,
wants and purposes. They come from the East,
from the Middle States, from the South; they come
from every quarter of the globe, full grown men.
Here are the English and the German, the Scotch
and the Irish, the French and the Scandinavian, the
Italian, the Portuguese, the Spaniard, Jew and Gen-

tile; and here and there and everywhere is the uni-
versal, the eternal, indomitable and inevitable
' ' Yankee, ' ' victorious over all, and I as a ' ' Sucker ' ',
say welcome all. All, all, however, have their divine
purposes in the high, deep, broad and wide extended,
the sublime economy of God.

I am necessitated, as it were in self-defense, to
speak some words of the second and the third class,
with sub-classes and varieties. The fourth class
needs none.

The original western and southwestern pioneer —
the type of him is at times a somewhat open, candid,
sincere, energetic, spontaneous, trusting, tolerant,
brave and generous man. He is hospitable in his
tent, thoroughly acquainted with the stars in the
heavens, by which he travels, more or less; he is
acquainted with all the dangers of his route — horse
flesh and human flesh. He trusts to his own native
sagacity — a keen shrewdness, and his physical pow-
er—his gun and dog alone. The original man is a
long, tall, lean, lank man ; he is a cadaverous, sallow,
sunburnt, shaggy haired man ; his face is very sharp
and exceedingly angular; his nose is long, pointed,
and keen, Eoman or Greek as it may be; his eyes
are small, gray or black, and sunken, are keen, sharp

and inquisitive, piercing, as if looking through the
object seen, and to the very background of things;
he is sinewy and tough, calm or uneasy, according
to circumstances; he is all bone and sinew, scarcely
any muscle ; is wise and endless in determinations —
obstinate. He wears a short linsey-woolsy hunting
shirt, or one made of soft buck or doe skin, fringed
with the same; it is buckled tightly about his body.
His moccasins are made of the very best heavy buck.
His trusty and true rifle is on his shoulder, or stands
by his side, his chin gracefully resting on his hand,
which covers the muzzle of the gun. The gaunt,
strong, hungry cur, crossed with the bull dog, and
his hound, lie crouched at his feet, their noses rest-
ing on and between their forepaws, thrown straight
out in front, ready to bound, sieze, master and de-
fend. The lean, short, compact, tough and hardy,
crop eared, shaved mane and bob-tailed pony
browses around, living where the hare, the deer,
mule or hardy mountain goat can live. It makes no
difference where night or storm overtakes him, his
wife and children sleep well and sound, knowing that
the husband, the father, protector and defender is
safe from all harm.
He sleeps on his rifle for pillow, his right hand

awake on the long, sharp, keen hunting knife in the
girdle, carved over and over with game and deer.
The will in the hand is awake. Such is the conscious
will on the nerve and muscle of the hand, amid dan-
ger of a night, placed there to keep watch and ward
while the general soul is asleep, that it springs to
defense long before the mind is fully conscious of
the facts. How grand and mysterious is mind!
The family makes no wild outcry — ''He's shot or
lost ! ' ' This man, his trusty long rifle, his two dogs
— one to fight and one to scent and trail — the long,
sharp and keen butcher knife, that never holds fire
or flashes in the pan, are equal to all emergencies.
As for himself, his snores on the grass, or brush-pile,
cut to make his bed, testify to the soul's conscious
security. Whether in a hollow tree or log, or under
and beneath the river's bank for shelter — screen or
fort — in night or daytime,, his heart beats calm ; he
is a fatalist, and says, "What is to be, will be," He
never tires, is quick and shrewd, is physically pow-
erful, is cunning, suspicious, brave and cautious al-
ternately or all combined, according to necessity. He
is swifter than the Indian, is stronger, is as long-
winded, and has more brains. This man is bee hunt-
er, or trapper, or Indian fighter. He is shy, nervous,

uneasy, and quite fidgety in the villages where he
goes twice a year to exchange his furs for whisky,
tobacco, powder, flints and lead. He dreads, does
not scorn, our civilization. Overtake the man, catch
him, and try to hold a conversation with him, if you
can. His eye and imagination are on the chase in
the forest when you think you are attracting his
simple mind. He is restless in eye and motion about
towns and villages ; his muscles and nerves dance an
uneasy, rapid, jerking dance when in presence of
our civilization. He is suspicious here, and danger-
ous from his ignorance of the social world. This
man is a man of acts and deeds, not speech ; he is at
times stern, silent, secretive and somewhat uncom-
municable. His words are words of one syllable,
sharp nouns and active verbs mostly. He scarcely
ever uses adjectives, and always replies to ques-
tions asked him—' ' Yes, " ' ' No, " ' ' I will, " ' ' I wont. ' '
Ask him where he is from, and his answer is —
"Blue Eidge," "Cumberland," "Bear Creek." Ask
him where he kills his game, or gets his furs, and
his answer ever is — "Illinois," "Sangamon," "Salt
Creek." Ask him where he is going — "Plains,"
"Forests," "Home," is his unvarying answer. See
him in the wilds, as I have seen him, strike up with

his left hand's forefinger the loose rim of his old
home-made wool or other hat, that hangs like a rag
over his eyes, impeding his sight and perfect vision^
peering keenly into the distance for fur or game,
Indian or deer. See him look and gaze and deter-
mine what the thing seen is — see him at that instant
stop and crouch and crawl toward the object like a
wild hungry tiger, measuring the distances between
twig and weed with his beard, so as to throw no
shadow of sensation on the distant eye of foe or
game — the thing to be crept on and inevitably killed.
See him watch even the grass and brush beneath his
feet, as he moves and treads, that no rustle, or
crack or snap, shall be made by which the ear of foe
or game shall be made aware of his danger. See
him carefully wipe off and raise his long and trusty
gun to shoulder and cheek — see him throw his eye
lockward and along the barrel — watch him, see the
first upcoil of smoke, before the crack and ring and
roll and roar comes. The bullet has already quickly
done its work of death. Caution makes this man
stand still and reload before moving a foot. Then he
eyes the dead keenly. ''There's danger in the ap-
parent dead," he whispers to himself, cocks his gun
and walks, keeping his finger on the trigger.

The third class I am about to describe — the brave,
rollicking roysterer — is still among us, though
tamed by age into a moral man. He is large, bony,
muscular, strong almost as an ox. He is strongly
physically developed. He is naturally strong mind-
ed, naturally gifted, brave, daring to a fault. He is
a hardy, rough and tumble man. He has a strong,
quick sagacity, fine intuitions, with great, good com-
mon sense. He is hard to cheat, hard to whip and
still harder to fool. These people are extremely so-
ciable and good natured — too much so for their own
good, as a general rule. They are efficient, ready,
practical men, and are always ready for any revolu-
tion. I wish, I am anxious, to defend these men, as
well as the God-given spirit of pioneering. One of
the writers on Mr. Lincoln's life says, speaking of
Thomas Lincoln, ' ' When inefficient men become very
uncomfortable they are quite likely to try emigra-
tion as a remedy. A good deal of what is called the
pioneer spirit is simply the spirit of shiftless dis-
content." But more of this hereafter, not now and
just here.

These men, especially about New Salem, could
shave a horse's mane and tail, paint, disfigure and
offer him for sale to the owner in the very act of in-

quiring for Ms own horse, that knew his master, but
his master recognizing him not. They could hoop
up in a hogshead a drunken man, they being them-
selves drunk, put in and nail down the head, and roll
the man down New Salem hill a hundred feet or
more. They could run down a lean, hungry wild
pig, catch it, heat a tin-plate stove furnace hot, and
putting in the pig, could cook it, they dancing the
while a merry jig. They could, they did, these very
things occasionally, yet they could clear and clean
a forest of Indians and wolves in a short time ; they
could shave off a forest as clean and clear as a man's
beard close cut to his face ; they could trench a pond,
ditch a bog or lake, erect a log house, pray and fight,
make a village or create a state. They would do all
for sport or fun, or from necessity — do it for a
neighbor — and they could do the reverse of all this
for pure and perfectly unalloyed deviltry's sake.
They attended church, heard the sermon, wept and
prayed, shouted, got up and fought an hour, and
then went back to pray, just as the spirit moved
them. These men — I am speaking generally — were
always true to women — their fast and tried friends,
protectors and defenders. There are scarcely any
such on the globe for this virtue. They were one

thing or the other — praying or fighting, creating or
destroying, shooting Indian;8 or getting shot by
whisky, just as they willed. Though these men were
rude and rough, though life's forces ran over the
edge of its bowl, foaming and sparkling in pure and
perfect deviltry for deviltry's sake, yet place be-
fore them a poor weak man, who needed their aid,
a sick man, a man of misfortune, a lame man, a
woman, a widow, a child, an orphaned little one,
then these men melted up into sympathy and char-
ity at once, quick as a flash, and gave all they had,
and willingly and honestly toiled or played cards
for more. If a minister of religion preached the
devil and his fire, they would cry out ' ' to your rifles,
oh boys, and let's clean out the devil, with his fire
and all, they are enemies to mankind." If the good
minister preached Jesus and him crucified, with his
precious blood trickling down the spear and cross,
they would melt into honest prayer, praying hon-
estly, and with deep, deep feeling and humility, say-
ing aloud, "would to God we had been there with
our good trusty rifles amid those murderous Jews."
I wish to quote the author's sentence again, it reads
— ''When inefficient men become very uncomfort-
able, they are quite likely to try emigration as a rem-

edy. A good deal of what is called the pioneer spirit
is simply the spirit of shiftless discontent." Here
are two distinct allegations or assertions, rather
charges : 1st, that inefficient men, through the spirit
of discontent at home, emigrate as a remedy for that
uncomf ortableness ; and 2nd, that a good deal of the
spirit of pioneering comes from the spirit of shift-
less discontent. I wish to say a few words on this
sentence, and first as to fact, and secondly, as to
principal. It is not, I hope, necessary for me to
defend the particular man spoken of — Thomas Lin-
coln— the father of President Lincoln. It is not
necessary that I should flatter the pioneer to defend
him, yet I feel that other men and women in New
England, possible in Europe, may be grossly mis-
led by such an assertion, such an idea, as is con-
tained in this sentence. It is admitted by me that
man's condition at home sometimes is exceedingly
uncomfortable. To throw off that condition of un-
comfortableness is the sole, only and eternal motive
that prompts and drives men and women to pio-
neering. Men of capacity, integrity and energy — for
such are the generality of pioneers in the west —
emigrate to this new land from their own homes, not
because they are inefficient men, men unable to

grapple with the home condition, but rather because
thy refuse to submit to the bad conditions at home.
Their manly souls and indomitable spirits rise up
against the cold, frigid, despotic caste crystalliza-
tions at home — a glorious rebellion for the freedom
of man. All men emigrate from their homes to new
lands in hope of bettering their human conditions,
which at home are sometimes chafingly uncomfort-
able. The spirit of pioneering is not a spirit of
shiftless discontent, nor any part of it, but is the
creating spirit, a grand desire, wish and will to rise
up in the scale of being; it has moved mankind —
each man and woman and placed them on the globe,
with genius in their heads, and hope and faith i'h
their souls. God's intentions, purposes and laws, as
written on the human soul, forever interpret them-
selves thus: '*My child, my good children, man,
woman and child, each and all — hope, struggle, I
am with you and will forever be, go on, go upward,
go westward, go heavenward, on and on forever."
Good men and women do not, from the spirit of shift-
less discontent, quit the sacred ashes of the dead
loved ones, and wildly rush into a cold, damp, un-
cleared, gloomy, unsettled, wild wilderness, where
. they know they must struggle with disease, poverty,

nature, the wild wolf and wilder men, and the un-
tamed and ungeared elements of nature, that sweep
everywhere unconfined. They do not go for game,
nor sport, nor daring adventure with wild beast,
nor daring sport with wilder men. They go or
come at Grod's command — "Children, my good chil-
dren, one and all, man, woman and child, all, all —
hope, struggle, to better your condition — onward,
forestward, upward — and on and on forever, or
miserably perish, and quit the globe to be repeopled
by better beings. ' '

Men, tender and lovely women, do not quit their
homes, where are comforts, luxuries, arts, science,
general knowledge and ease, amid the civilized and
civilizing influences at home, to go westward from
a spirit of shiftless discontent. What! are these
brave men and women all through the west, and such
as these the world over, inefficient men, inactive con-
sumers, unenergetic, insufScients, lazy and do-
nothing people, bursting westward from the spirit
of shiftless discontent, where they involuntarily clap
their hands to their heads and spasmodically feel
for their crowns, in order to preserve their scalps,
as the quick flash and fire-steel gleam of the Indian's
knife glints and glistens against the western sky!

What! Are Grant and Jackson, Douglas and Ben-
ton, Clay and Lincoln, inefficient men, coming west
from the spirit of shiftless discontent? Is fire ef-
ficiently hot? Is lightning efficiently active? Is na-
ture efficiently creative, massing and rolling up all
these visible worlds to heat and light and life, and
holding them suspended there by God's will — called
by men gravity — for a human idea's sake? If these
things are so, then these men and women whom I
have described, the pioneers, with their brave hearts
and their defiant and enduring souls, are and were
efficient men and women — efficiently warm, for they
consumed and burnt the forest and cleared and
cleaned it. They had and have energy and creative
activity, with capacity, honesty and valor. They
created states and hold them to the Union, to liberty
and to justice. They and their children after them
can and do point with the highest pride and con-
fidence to the deep, broad-laid, tolerant, generous,
magnanimous foundations of these mighty several
western states, whereon our liberty and civilization
so proudly and firmly stand, that they, the pioneer,
in the spirit of pioneering embodied in them, made
and created, and hold up to light and heat and life,

suspended there rolling, by the electro-magnetic
power of the intelligent popular will.

My defense has ended. The wild animals that pre-
ceded the Indians are gone, the Indian treading
closely on their heels. The red man has gone. The
pioneer, the type of him, is gone, gone with the
Indian, the bear, and the beaver, the buffalo and
deer. They all go with the same general wave, and
are thrown high on the beach of the wilderness, by
the deep, wide sea of our civilization. He that
tramped on the heels of the red man, with his wife
and children, pony and dog, are gone, leaving no
trace behind. He is the master of the bee and the
beaver, the Indian and the bear, the wolf and buff-
alo. He and they are gone, never to return. God
speed them on their way, their journey and destiny.
As path makers, blazers, mappers, as fighters and
destructive, they have had, and have their uses and
purposes in the divine plan. Such are succeeded
by the Armstrongs, the Clarrys, the Eutledges, the
Greens, Spears, and Lincolns, who too have their
uses and purposes in the great Idea, and are suc-
ceeded by others^ now among us, who are forces in
the same universal plan. And let us not complain,
for the great Planner knows and has decreed what

is best and wisest in his grand and sublime
economics. The animal is gone ; the Indian is gone.
The trapper, bee and beaver hunter is gone — all are
gone. A few of the third class still remain among
us, standing or leaning like grand, gray, old towers,
with lights on their brow, quietly inclining, leaning,
almost dipping in the deep, the unknown, the un-
knowable and unfathomable deeps of the future,
that roll through all time and space, and last up
against the Throne. They did not come here from
the spirit of shiftless discontent, nor shall they take
up their soul's greatest pioneering march on to God,
through the cowardly spirit of shiftless discontent.
They are fast going, one by one. Eespect them
while living, reverence them when dead, and tread
lightly on their sacred dust, ye all. The children of
such may be trusted to preserve and hand down to
all future time what they created, wrought and
planted in the forest. The fourth class is ready to
clasp hands with the third, taking an oath of fidelity
to Liberty, sacred as heaven. We thus come and go,
and in the coming and going we have shaded — risen
up, progressed — during these various and varied
waves of immigration, with their respective civili-
zations, through force, cunning and the rifle, to the

dollars, the steam engine, and the Idea. We have
moved from wolf to mind. We have grown out-
ward, upward, higher and better, living generally in
more virtue, less vice, longer and more civilized,
freer and purer, and thus man ever mounts upward.
So are the records of all time.

Abraham Lincoln loved Ann Eutledge with all his
soul, mind and strength. She loved him as dearly,
tenderly and affectionately. They seemed made in
heaven for each other, though opposite in many
things. As before remarked, she was accidentally,
innocently and honestly engaged to A. Lincoln and

Mr. at one and the same time. It is said and

thought that the young lady was conditionally
promised to Mr. Lincoln, to be consummated upon

a release from her first engagement with Mr.

The primary causes, facts and conditions which led
to this complication shall be related to you at
another time and place. There is no dishonor in it
to any of the three. In her conflicts of honor, duty,
love, promises, and womanly engagements — she was
taken sick. She struggled, regretted, grieved, be-
came nervous. She ate not, slept not, was taken
sick of brain fever, became emaciated, and was fast
sinking in the grave. Lincoln wished to see her.

She silently prayed to see Mm. The friends of
both parties at first refused the wish and prayer of
both, still the wishes and prayers of both prevailed.
Mr. Lincoln did go to see her abont the 10th day
of August, A. D. 1835. The meeting was quite as
much as either could bear, and more than Lincoln,
with all his coolness and philosophy, could endure.
The voice, the face, the features of her; the love,
sympathy and interview fastened themselves on his
heart and soul forever. Heaven only knows what
was said by the two. God only knows what was
thought. Dr. Jason Duncan, of New Salem, about
September, A. D. 1833, had shown and placed in
Mr. Lincoln's hands the poem called in short, now,
''Immortality," or properly, "Oh, Why Should the
Spirit of Mortal be Proud?" Remember, Miss Eut-
ledge died on the 25th of August, A. D. 1835, and
was buried in the Concord cemetery, six miles
north, bearing a little west, of New Salem, as stated
before. Mr. Lincoln has stated that his heart, sad
and broken, was buried there. He said in addition,
to the same friend, ''I cannot endure the thought
that the sleet and storm, frost and snow of heaven
should beat on her grave." He never addressed
another woman, in my opinion, '^ yours affectionate-

ly;" and generally and characteristically abstained
from the use of the word "love." That word can-
not be found more than a half dozen times, if that
often, in all his letters and speeches, since that time.
I have seen some of his letters to other ladies, but
he never says ''love." He never ended his letters
with "yours affectionately," but signed his name,
"your friend, A. Lincoln." Abraham Lincoln was,
by nature, more or less, in tendency, abstracted —
had the power of continuous concentrated thought.
It may be, as alleged, that he was a warm, ardent
and more or less impulsive man, before 1834, arid
of which I give no opinion. He never did care for
food — eating mechanically. He sorrowed and
grieved, rambled over the hills and through the
forests, day and night. He suffered and bore it for
a while like a great man — a philosopher. He slept
not, he ate not, joyed not. This he did until his
body became emaciated and weak, and gave way.
His mind wandered from its throne. In his imagi-
nation he muttered words to her he loved. His
mind, his reason, somewhat dethroned, walked out
of itself along the uncolumned air, and kissed and
embraced the shadows and illusions of the heated
brain. Love, future happiness, death, sorrow,

grief, and pure and perfect despair, the want of
sleep, the want of food, a cracked and aching heart,
over and intense thought, soon worked a partial
wreck of body and mind. It has been said that Mr.
Lincoln became and was totally insane at that time
and place. This is not exactly the truth. The de-
thronement of his reason was only partial, and
could alone be detected by his closest friends, and
sharpest observers, through the abruptness of his
sentences and the sharp contrasts of his ideas and
language. To give you a fair idea, an exact one of
his then true mental state and condition imagine
Mr. Lincoln situated as I have attempted to de-
scribe. Mr. Lincoln had a strong mind, a clear and
distinct one. His style and mode of expression in
1835, were entirely different from what they were
from 1853 to 1864. He had more, much more, emo-
tion, fancy and imagination, in 1835, when he was
26 years of age, than he had in 1853 to 1864 when he
was 47 to 55 years of age. He grew stronger as he
grew older.

Did this dread calamity, of which I have spoken,
crush him and thus modify, if it did not change his
nature? It must be expected that his expressions
would follow truly his own rational thoughts in part

only, not wholly so in logic, at least. His utterances
and expressions would be necessarily disconnected
and sharply contrasted. It is said, and I believe it,
that he lost his logical faculty — power over cause
and effect, and their legitimate relation — through
the momentary loss of memory alone. Imagine him
racked in heart and body, in mind and soul, not
forgetting the immediate and proximate cause of
his condition. He must naturally and necessarily
speak and utter what is in his own mind; sharply
and incoherently, sadly and wildly. Hear him:
**What a time for joy today in town; the men and
women looked so happy all through the village. Ah !
me. No. Not today; its night. There's a trick in
it, and where 's the fallacy? Does nature deal un-
justly? I thought not. I'll see and tell myself.
'Tis a rude wind that blows no man joy. Where
am I? What strange woods are these. It seems
that I've run my compass and dragged my chains
along this path. Why, wherefore is all this? These
hills I've never seen before, and the wild valleys at
my feet now have no more familiar face for me.
What? 'Tis strange. How is it? What's that?
These hands I think I've seen before, and yet I
know them not. The cloads are cold, and where 's

fire I There it is! No, 'tis not. How goes it out?
Who cheats me 1 and for what ? I am sad ; and thou
sweet bird of night, sing on thy tune of whippor-
will; ah! who's that? 'Tis her I love. This path
and hill I know; yet 'tis strange, strange, uncom-
mon strange. I know it here and there, in spots.
Why, wherefore is this? Who am I and what, 'mid
nature's profoundest uncertainties, that come and
go like chance, whither, no one knows. There, the
cocks crow. Did I not read — but, stay, did I not
read law beneath the shade of this tree, grinding
'round the sun ? I love her. Oh ! immensities above
me, below me, and around me.

The dogs, the very dogs bark at me. These limbs
and legs, feet and hands, are mine ; yet 'tis strange !
and ah! thou mysterious state of things. Isn't fate,
chance, Providence, God — that so unwinds the
world's and all their life? Grief! What's that?
I'm tired and weary . The clothes I've got on and
wear, I know are mine, and yet they seem not to be.
Ah! dead and gone from me thou sweet one; and
shall this aching, crushed heart of mine never die
and feel the pangs of nature never more. This old
mill I've seen before, and often heard it grind. The
waters in the pond are filled with shining, floating

stars. Why don't they go out and sink in water
ten feet deep, or more? It's curious, curious,
strange wondrous strange. Why, wherefore is that f
Some trick deludes me. I'll search and tell myself.
Ah ! dead and gone, thou sweet one ; dead and buried
forever, forever — more, in the grave. Mortal man!
so it is, and must be. Our hopes forever blast and
wither in their tender growth. What is hope I What
is death? What is forever, evermore, forevermore?
Come gentle winds and cool my aching head; or,
thou hanging thunderbolt, swiftly strike and scorch
me. What's that in the mill pond, going splash,
splash? 'Twas a fish, I guess. Let's go and feed
it, and make it joy, and be happy. I love her, and
shall marry her on tomorrow's eve. So soul be
content, and endless joy shall come. Heart of mine
be still, for remember sw,eet tomorrow eve. Oh!
thou calmest, most boisterous profoundest uncer-
tainties of things, hold oif, or take another path
not coming here. What I did I dream? Think ; what
did I say? It cannot be. No, it cannot be. She's
dead and gone — gone forever. Fare thee well, sweet
girl! We'll meet again."

I am not now discussing the complicated causes
of insanity in a scientific method. I am not able to

do so. I am giving you a probable example of what
Lincoln was in September A. D. 1834. I give you
the broad facts. I shall not, now and here, enter
into a scientific disquisition on lunacy — what are
illusions, or delusions; nor other false appearances
in the mind of the insane; nor whether these illu-
sions, delusions, or other false appearances in a
fevered, wrecked brain are caused objectively from
or through irregular and feverish sensations; nor
subjectively by the same; nor whether they come
from perceptions distorted nor from memory or
imagination, abnormally developed; nor from all
combined. One thing ought to be certain: namely,
that the mind cannot create normally, regularly, in
a wrecked and shattered condition. Creation,
through mental energy, is the law of the mind; and
when it cannot create lawfully, regularly, through
normal mental energy in activity, it cannot create
according to its law. This is the great law of the
mind. Creations are distortions when the mind is
diseased. Mental creations lift us heavenward, in
proportion to the number of such creations. Who
shall promulgate this great law and teach it?

The friends of Mr. Lincoln — men, women and
children — begged him to quit his home and place

of business. They coaxed and threatened him by
turns in order to get him to quit the places and
scenes of his sorrows and griefs. His women
friends tried their arts on him. Men begged and
held out strong inducements to go into the country.
The boys and girls of the town and neighborhood
aided and assisted the older people all they could.
All tricks were detected by the man the whole peo-
ple so dearly loved. Bolin Green and some of his
and Lincoln 's special friends at last tried their pow-
ers. They succeeded in throwing Lincoln off his
guard by robbing him of his suspicions. Mr. Lin-
coln, in September, went down to Bolin Green's in
consequence of the pressure thrown on him and
around him, and in the space of a week or ten days,
by Bolin 's humor, generosity and hospitality, his
care and kindness, aided by the womanly sympathy,
gentleness and tenderness of his wife, Lincoln soon
rose up, a man once more. He was visited daily by
men, women, boys and girls, whose conversation,
stories, jokes, witticisms, fun and sport, soon roused
up the man, thus enabling him to momentarily throw
off sorrow, sadness, grief, pain and anxiety. They
walked over the hills with him, danced for him,
read for him, laughed for him, and amused him in

a thousand ways. He evidently enjoyed all as man
scarcely ever enjoyed two weeks before, nor since.
He got well and bade adieu, for a short season, to
Bolin's kind roof and generous hospitality. Mrs.
Bolin Green still lives, God bless her; she survives
her own husband, and their ward and guest. Mr.
Lincoln went back to New Salem, as thought, a
changed, a radically changed man. He went to
New Salem about the last of September, A. D. 1835.
He now once more picked up, took up, and read, and
re-read the poem called ''Immortality;" or, "Oh,
Why Should the Spirit of Mortal Be Proud?" He
saw new beauties in it. He siezed it, and it seized
him — a mutual seizure and arrest. He learned,
learned it by heart, committed it to memory, and
repeated it over and over to his friends.

Such is the true history of things — such are New
Salem and surrounding country — such are her hills,
and bluffs, and valleys. Such are her geology and
her general past — such is her floral world — such are
her fruits, trees and plants, birds, fish and game —
and such were and are her people. Such is New
Salem — such was she in the past — such is she now.
So is she in the spring-time, in the summer-time,
fall and winter-time. So she is in daylight, and

darkness, beneath sun, moon, and stars. So is her
rise — her growth — her fall and ruin, death and de-
cay. Such is man. It was here Abraham Lincoln
first came to himself, after so great grief. It was
here, amid these hills and peaks, bluffs and valleys,
creeks and paths, branches and rivulets, he moved
among men and women, walked and roamed sadly,
gloomily, frantically, despairingly, almost insanely.
He thought and reflected on man and women, the
transient and permanent, — love, duty, nature,
destiny, the past, present, and the future — of God.
It was here he walked in daylight — at night time —
under the forest trees and beneath the moon's pale,
sad glance, contemplating all human life, its laws
and springs, its mysterio^us ways and ends, his own
insignificance, the utter insignificance of all men
and things, the follies, foibles, ambitions and cor-
ruptions, as compared with nature, laws and prin-
ciples, all embodied in the permanent, and it in the
never-beginning and never-ending, absolute, un-
conditioned and illimitable. It was about the 20th
day of October, A. D. 1835, that Abraham Lincoln,

as he wandered and wended Ms sad and melancholy
way over hill and dale, gloomily burst forth —

Oh.! why should the spirit of mortal be proud? —
Lfike a swift-fleeing meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high.
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The infant, a mother attended and loved:
The mother, that infant's affection who proved;
The husband, that mother and infant who blest, —
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure — her triumphs are by.
And the memory of those who loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king, that the sceptre hath borne.
The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn,
The eye of the sage and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap.
The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep,
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread.
Have faded away! like the grass that we tread.

The saint, who enjoyed the communion of heaven.
The sinner, who dared to remain unforgiven.
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just.
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes — like the flower of the weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes — even those we behold.
To repeat every tale that has often been told;

For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking, our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking, our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging, they also would cling —
But it speeds from us all, like a bird on the wing.

They loved — but the story we cannot unfold:
They scorned but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved — but no wail from their slumber will come;
Tihey joyed — but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died — ay, they died — we things that are now.
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow.
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together in sunshine and rain;
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge.
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye — 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death;
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud: —
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

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Full text of "Abraham Lincoln : Miss Ann Rutledge, New Salem, pioneering, and the poem, a lecture delivered in the old Sangamon county court house, November 1866"

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